PROFILES     FROM     CHINA 


O  F 
FROM 
CHINA 


I    L  E    S 


Sketches  in  verse 
of  ^People  &<Tkings 
Seen  in  thetfnterior 


EUNICE  T1ETJENS 


RALPH  FLETCHER  SEYMOUR. 

Publishers,     F  I  N  E    A ICT  S    BUILDING 
CHICAGO,    ILLINOIS 


Copyright 
by 
Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour 


TO  MY 
MOTHER 


pa 
nt? 


371638 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  Poetry, 
The  Seven  Arts,  The  Chicago  Evening  Post, 
The  Graphic,  The  Little  Review,  for  per 
mission  to  reprint. 


CONTENTS 


PROEM 

The    Hand II 

FROM  THE  INTERIOR 

Cormorants 15 

A  Scholar 17 

The  Story  Teller 18 

The   Well 20 

The  Abandoned  God 21 

The  Bridge 23 

The  Shop 24 

My  Servant 27 

The  Feast 28 

The  Beggar 30 

Interlude 31 

The  City  Wall 32 

Woman 34 

Our  Chinese  Acquaintance 36 

The   Spirit  Wall 38 

The  Most-Sacred  Mountain 39 

The  Dandy 41 

New  China:     The  Iron  Works     ...  42 

Meditation 45 

Chinese  New  Year 47 


Contents 

ECHOES 

Crepuscule 51 

Festival  of  the  Dragon  Boats     ....  51 

1        Kang  Yi 52 

Poetics 52 

1        A  Lament  of  Scarlet  Cloud 53 

The  Son  of  Heaven 53 

The  Dream 54 

Yin  and  Yang 54 

CHINA  OF  THE  TOURISTS 

Reflections  in  a  Ricksha 57 

The  Camels 59 

The  Connoisseur 60 

Sunday  in  the  British  Empire: 

Hong  Kong 62 

On  the  Canton  River  Boat 64 

The   Altar   of    Heaven 66 

The  Chair  Ride 67 

The  Sikh  Policeman :    a  British  Subject  .  69 

The  Lady  of  Easy  Virtue :  an  American  .  7 1 

In  the  Mixed  Court:    Shanghai     ...  73 


PROEM 


PROFILES 

FROM 

CHINA 


THE  HAND 

As  you  sit  so,  in  the  firelight,  your  hand  is  the 

color  of  new  bronze. 
I  cannot  take  my  eyes  from  your  hand; 
In    it,    as    in    a    microcosm,    the    vast    and 

shadowy  Orient  is  made  visible. 
Who  shall  read  me  your  hand? 

You  are  a  large  man,  yet  it  is  small  and  nar 
row,  like  the  hand  of  a  woman  and  the 
paw  of^chimpanzee. 

It  is  supple  and  boneless  as  the  hands 
wrought  in  pigment Hby.  a  fashionable 
portrait  painter.  The  tapering  fingers 
bend  backward. 

Between  them  burns  a  scented  cigarette.  You 
poise  it  with  infinite  daintiness,  like  a 
woman  under  the  eyes  of  her  lover. 
The  long  line  of  your  curved  nail  is 
fastidiousness  made  flesh, 
ii 


12  Profiles  from  China 

Very  skilful  is  your  hand. 

With  a  tiny  brush  it  can  feather  lines  of 
ineffable  suggestion,  glints  of  hidden 
beauty.  With  a  little  tool  it  can  carve 
strange  dreams  in  ivory  and  milky  jade. 

And  cruel  is  your  hand. 

With  the  same  cold  daintiness  and  skill  it 
can  devise  exquisite  tortures,  eternities 
of  incredible  pain,  that  Torquemada 
never  glimpsed. 

And  voluptuous  is  your  hand,  nice  in  its  sense 
of  touch. 

Delicately  it  can  caress  a  quivering  skin, 
softly  it  can  glide  over  golden  thighs 
-Brlitis  had  not  such  long  nails. 

Who  can  read  me  your  hand? 

In  the  firelight  the  smoke  curls  up  fantasti 
cally  from  the  cigarette  between  your 
fingers  which  are  the  color  of  new 
bronze. 

The  room  is  full  of  strange  shadows. 

I  am  afraid  of  your  hand 


FROM 

THE 

INTERIOR 


CORMORANTS 


The  boats  of  your  masters  are  black; 

They  are  filthy  with  the  slimy  filth  of  ages; 
like  the  canals  on  which  they  float  they 
give  forth  an  evil  smell. 

On  soiled  perches  you  sit,  swung  out  on  either 
side  over  the  scummy  water — you  who 
should  be  savage  and  untamed,  who 
should  ride  on  the  clean  breath  of  the 
sea  and  beat  your  pinions  in  the  strong 
storms  of  the  sea. 

Yet  you  are  not  held. 

Tamely  you  sit  and  willingly,  ten  wretches  to 
a  boat,  lurching  and  half  asleep. 

Around  each  throat  is  a  ring  of  straw,  a  small 
ring,  so  that  you  may  swallow  only  small 
things,  such  as  your  masters  desire. 

Presently,  when  you  reach  the  lake,  you  will 
dive. 

At  the  word  of  your  masters  the  parted 
waters  will  close  over  you  and  in  your 
ears  will  be  the  gurgling  of  yellow 
streams. 

15 


1 6  Profiles  from  China 

Hungrily  you  will  search  in  the  darkened 
void,  swiftly  you  will  pounce  on  the  sil 
ver  shadow 

Then  you  will  rise  again,  bearing  in  your  beak 
the  struggling  prey, 

And  your  lousy  lords,  whose  rings  are  upon 
your  throats,  will  take  from  you  the 
catch,  giving  in  its  place  a  puny  wriggler 
which  can  pass  the  gates  of  straw. 

Such  is  your  servitude. 

Yet  willingly  you  sit,  lurching  and  half  asleep. 

The  boatmen  shout  one  to  another  in  nasal 
discords.  Lazily  you  preen  your  great 
wings,  eagle  wings,  built  for  the  sky; 

And  you  yawn 

Faugh !    The  sight  of  you  sickens  me,  divers 

in  inland  filth ! 

You  grow  lousy  like  your  lords, 
For  you  have  forgotten  the  sea. 

Wusih 


From  the  Interior  17 


A  SCHOLAR 

You  sit,  chanting  the  maxims  of  Confucius. 

On  your  head  is  a  domed  cap  of  black  satin 
and  your  supple  hands  with  their  long 
nails  are  piously  folded. 

You  rock  to  and  fro  rhythmically. 

Your  voice,  rising  and  falling  in  clear  nasal 
monosyllables,  flows  on  steadily,  mono 
tonously,  like  the  flowing  of  water  and 
the  flowering  of  thought. 

You  are  chanting,  it  seems,  of  the  pious  con 
duct  of  man  in  all  ages, 

And  I  know  you  for  a  scoundrel. 

None  the  less  the  maxims  of  Confucius  are 

venerable,  and  your  voice  pleasant. 
I  listen  attentively 

Wusih 


1 8  Profiles  from  China 


THE  STORY  TELLER 

In  a  corner  of  the  market-place  he  sits,  his 
face  the  target  for  many  eyes. 

The  sombre  crowd  about  him  is  motionless. 
Behind  their  faces  no  lamp  burns;  only 
their  eyes  glow  faintly  with  a  reflected 
light. 

For  their  eyes  are  on  his  face. 

It  alone  is  alive,  is  vibrant,  moving  bronze 
under  a  sun  of  bronze. 

The  taut  skin,  like  polished  metal,  shines 
along  his  cheek  and  jaw.  His  eyes  cut 
upward  from  a  slender  nose,  and  his 
quick  mouth  moves  sharply  out  and  in. 

Artful  are  the  gestures  of  his  mouth,  elabo 
rate  and  full  of  guile.  When  he  draws 
back  the  bow  of  his  lips  his  face  is  like 
a  mask  of  lacquer,  set  with  teeth  of 
pearl,  fantastic,  terrible 

What  strange  tale  lives  in  the  gestures  of  his 
mouth  ? 

Does  a  fox-maiden,  bewitching,  tiny-footed, 
lure  a  scholar  to  his  doom?  Is  an  un- 
filial  son  tortured  of  devils?  Or  does  a 
decadent  queen  sport  with  her  eunuchs? 


From  the  Interior  19 

I  cannot  tell. 

The  faces  of  the  people  are  wooden;  only 

their  eyes  burn  dully  with  a  reflected 

light. 

I  shall  never  know. 
I  am  alien  .  .  .  alien. 

Nanking 


2O  Profiles  from  China 

THE  WELL 

The  Second  Well  under  Heaven  lies  at  the 
foot  of  the  Sacred  Mountain. 

Perhaps  the  well  is  sacred  because  it  is  clean; 
or  perhaps  it  is  clean  because  it  is  sacred. 

I  cannot  tell. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  well  are  coppers  and 
coins  with  square  holes  in  them,  thrown 
thither  by  devout  hands.  They  gleam 
enticingly  through  the  shallow  water. 

The  people  crowd  about  the  well,  leaning 
brown  covetous  faces  above  the  coping 
as  my  copper  falls  slantwise  to  rest. 

Perhaps  it  will  bring  me  luck,  who  knows? 

It  is  a  very  sacred  well. 

Or  perhaps,  when  it  is  quite  dark,  someone 
who  is  hungry 

Then  the  luck  will  be  his ! 

The  Village  of  the  Mud  Idols 


From  the  Interior  21 


THE  ABANDONED  GOD 

In  the  cold  darkness  of  eternity  he  sits,  this 
god  who  has  grown  old. 

His  rounded  eyes  are  open  on  the  whir  of 
time,  but  man  who  made  him  has  for 
gotten  him. 

Blue  is  his  graven  face,  and  silver-blue  his 
hands.  His  eyebrows  and  his  silken 
beard  are  scarlet  as  the  hope  that  built 
him. 

The  yellow  dragon  on  his  rotting  robes  still 
rears  itself  majestically,  but  thread  by 
thread  time  eats  its  scales  away, 

And  man  who  made  him  has  forgotten  him. 

For  incense  now  he  breathes  the  homely  smell 
of  rice  and  tea,  stored  in  his  anteroom; 

For  priests  the  busy  spiders  hang  festoons 
between  his  fingers,  and  nest  them  in  his 
yellow  nails. 

And  darkness  broods  upon  him. 

The  veil  that  hid  the  awful  face  of  godhead 
from  the  too  impetuous  gaze  of  wor 
shippers  serves  in  decay  to  hide  from 
deity  the  living  face  of  man, 

So  god  no  longer  sees  his  maker. 


22  Profiles  from  China 

Let  us  drop  the  curtain  and  be  gone ! 
I  am  old  too,  here  in  eternity. 

Pa-tze-kiao 


From  the  Interior  '  23 

THE  BRIDGE 

The  Bridge  of  the  Eight  Scholars  spans  the 

canal  narrowly. 
On  the  gray  stone  of  its  arch  are  carvings  in 

low  relief,  and  the  curve  of  its  span  is 

pleasing  to  the  eye. 
No  one  knows  how  old  is  the  Bridge  of  the 

Eight  Scholars. 

In  our  house-boat  we  pass  under  it.  The 
boatman  with  the  rat-like  face  twists  the 
long  broken-backed  oar,  churning  the 
yellow  water,  and  we  creep  forward 
steadily. 

On  the  bridge  the  village  is  assembled.  For 
eign  devils  are  a  rarity. 

The  gold-brown  faces  are  not  unfriendly, 
merely  curious.  They  peer  in  rows  over 
the  rail  with  grunts  of  nasal  interest. 

Tentatively,  experimentally,  as  we  pass  they 
spit  down  upon  us.  Not  that  they  wish 
us  ill,  but  it  can  be  done,  and  the  tempta 
tion  is  too  great. 

We  retire  into  the  house-boat. 
The  roof  scrapes  as  we  pass  under  the  span 
of  the  Bridge  of  the  Eight  Scholars. 

Pa-tze-kiao 


24  Profiles  from  China 


THE  SHOP 

( The  articles  sold  here  are  to  be  burned  at 
funerals  for  the  use  of  the  dead  in  the 
spirit  world.) 

The  master  of  the  shop  is  a  pious  man,  in 

good  odor  with  the  priests. 
He    is    old    and    honorable    and   his    white 

moustache  droops  below  his  chin. 
Mencius,  I  think,  looked  so. 

The  shop  behind  him  is  a  mimic  world,  a 
world  of  pieties  and  shams — the  valley 
of  remembrance — the  dwelling  place  of 
the  unquiet  dead. 

Here  on  his  shelves  are  ranged  the  splendor 
and  the  panoply  of  life,  silk  in  smooth 
gleaming  rolls,  silver  in  ingots,  carving 
and  embroidery  and  jade,  a  scarlet 
bearer-chair,  a  pipe  for  opium 

Whatever  life  has  need  of,  it  is  here, 

And  it  is  for  the  dead. 

Whatever  life  has  need  of,  it  is  here.  Yet  it 
is  here  in  sham,  in  effigy,  in  tortured 
compromise. 


From  the  Interior  25 

The  dead  have  need  of  silk.  Yet  silk  is  dear, 
and  there  are  living  backs  to  clothe. 

The  rolls  are  paper Do  not  look 

too  close. 

The  dead  I  think  will  understand. 

The  carvings,  too,  the  bearer-chair,  the  jade — 
yes,  they  are  paper;  and  the  shining 
ingots,  they  are  tinsel. 

Yet  they  are  made  with  skill  and  loving  care ! 

And  if  the  priest  knows — surely  he  must 
know! — when  they  are  burned  they'll 
serve  the  dead  as  well  as  verities. 

So  living  mouths  can  feed. 

The  master  of  the  shop  is  a  pious  man.  He 
has  attained  much  honor  and  his  white 
moustache  droops  below  his  chin. 

"Such  an  one"  he  says  "I  burned  for  my  own 
father.  And  such  an  one  my  son  will 
burn  for  me. 

For  I  am  old,  and  half  my  life  already  dwells 
among  the  dead." 

And,  as  he  speaks,  behind  him  in  the  shop  I 
feel  the  presence  of  a  hovering  host,  the 
myriads  of  the  immortal  dead,  the  rulers 
of  the  spirit  in  this  land 


26  Profiles  from  China 

For  in  this  kingdom  of  the  dead  they  who  are 
living  cling  with  fevered  hands  to  the 
torn  fringes  of  the  mighty  past.  And  if 
they  fail  a  little,  compromise 

The  dead  I  think  will  understand. 
Soochow 


From  the  Interior  27 

MY  SERVANT 

Tb    %** 
The  feet  of  my  servant  thump  on  the  floor. 

Thump,  they  go,  and  thump — dully,  de- 

formedly. 

My  servant  has  shown  me  her  feet. 
The  instep  has  been  broken  upward  into  a 

bony  cushion.     The  big  toe  is  pointed 

as  an  awl.     The  small  toes  are  folded 

under  the  cushioned  instep.     Only  the 

heel  is  untouched. 
The  thing  is  white  and  bloodless  with  the 

pallor  of  dead  flesh. 

But  my  servant  is  quite  contented. 
She  smiles  toothlessly   and  shows   me  how 
small  are  her  feet,  her  "golden  lilies." 

Thump,  they  go,  and  thump! 
Wusih 


28  Profiles  from  China 


THE  FEAST 

So  this  is  the  wedding  feast ! 

The  room  is  not  large,  but  it  is  heavily 
crowded,  filled  with  small  tables,  filled 
with  many  human  bodies. 

About  the  walls  are  paintings  and  banners  in 
sharp  colors;  above  our  heads  hang  in 
numerable  gaudy  lanterns  of  wood  and 
paper.  We  sit  in  furs,  shivering  with 
the  cold. 

The  food  passes  endlessly,  droll  combinations 
in  brown  gravies — roses,  sugar,  and 
lard — duck  and  bamboo — lotus,  chest 
nuts,  and  fish-eggs — an  "eight-precious 
pudding." 

They  tempt  curiosity ;  my  chop-sticks  are  busy. 
The  warm  rice-wine  trickles  sparingly. 

The  groom  is  invisible  somewhere,  but  the 
bride  martyrs  among  us.  She  is  clad 
in  scarlet  satin,  heavily  embroidered 
with  gold.  On  her  head  is  an  edifice  of 
scarlet  and  pearls. 

For  weeks,  I  know,  she  has  wept  in  protest. 

The  feast-mother  leads  her  in  to  us  with 
sacrificial  rites.  Her  eyes  are  closed, 


From  the  Interior  29 

hidden  behind  her  curtain  of  strung 
beads;  for  three  days  she  will  not  open 
them.  She  has  never  seen  the  bride 
groom. 

At  the  feast  she  sits  like  her  own  effigy.  She 
neither  eats  nor  speaks. 

Opposite  her,  across  the  narrow  table,  is  a 
wall  of  curious  faces,  lookers-on — chil 
dren  and  half-grown  boys,  beggars  and 
what-not — the  gleanings  of  the  streets. 

They  are  quiet  but  they  watch  hungrily. 

To-night,  when  the  bridegroom  draws  the 
scarlet  curtains  of  the  bed,  they  will  still 
be  watching  hungrily 

Strange,  formless  memories  out  of  books 
struggle  upward  in  my  consciousness. 

This  is  the  marriage  at  Cana 

I  am  feasting  with  the  Caliph  at  Bagdad. 

I  am  the  wedding  guest  who 

beat  his  breast 

My  heart  is  troubled. 

What  shall  be  said  of  blood-brotherhood  be 
tween  man  and  man? 

Wusih 


30  Profiles  from  China 


THE  BEGGAR 

Christ!    What  is  that—  that—  Thing? 
Only    a    beggar,    professionally    maimed,    I 
think. 

Across  the  narrow  street  it  lies,  the  street 

where  little  children  are. 
It  is  rocking  its  body  back  and  forth,  back 

and  forth,  ingratiatingly,  in  the  noisome 

filth. 
Beside   the  body   are   stretched  two   naked 

stumps  of  flesh,  on  one  the  remnant  of  a 

foot.    The  wounds  are  not  new  wounds, 

but  they  are  open  and  they  fester.  There 

are  flies  on  them. 
The  Thing  is  whining,  shrilly,  hideously. 

Professionally  maimed,  I  think. 
Christ! 

Hwai  Yuen 


From  the  Interior  31 


INTERLUDE 

It  is  going  to  be  hot  here. 

Already  the  sun  is  treacherous  and  a  dull 
mugginess  is  in  the  air.  I  note  that  win 
ter  clothes  are  shedding  one  by  one. 

In  the  market-place  sits  a  coolie,  expanding  in 

the  warmth. 
He  has  opened  his  ragged  upper  garments 

and  his  bronze  body  is  naked  to  the  belt. 
He   is    examining   it   minutely,    occasionally 

picking  at   something  with  the   dainty 

hand  of  the  Orient. 
If  he  had  ever  seen  a  zoological  garden  I 

should  say  he  was  imitating  the  monkeys 

there. 
As  he  has  not,  I  dare  say  the  taste  is  ingrained. 

At  all  events  it  is  going  to  be  hot  here. 
The  Village  of  the  Mud  Idols 


32  Profiles  from  China 


THE  CITY  WALL 

About  the  city  where  I  dwell,  guarding  it 
close,  runs  an  embattled  wall. 

It  was  not  new  I  think  when  Arthur  was  a 
king,  and  plumed  knights  before  a 
British  wall  made  brave  clangor  of 
trumpets,  that  Launcelot  came  forth. 

It  was  not  new  I  think,  and  now  not  it  but 
chivalry  is  old. 

Without,  the  wall  is  brick,  with  slots  for  fir 
ing,  and  it  drops  straightway  into  the 
evil  moat,  where  offal  floats  and  name 
less  things  are  thrown. 

Within,  the  wall  is  earth;  it  slants  more 
gently  down,  covered  with  grass  and 
stubbly  with  cut  weeds.  Below  it  in 
straw  lairs  the  beggars  herd,  patiently 
whining,  stretching  out  their  sores. 

And  on  the  top  a  path  runs. 

As  I  walk,  lifted  above  the  squalor  and  the 
dirt,  the  timeless  miracle  of  sunset 
mantles  in  the  west, 

The  blue  dusk  gathers  close 

And  beauty  moves  immortal  through  the 
land. 


From  the  Interior  33 

And  I  walk  quickly,  praying  in  my  heart  that 
beauty  will  defend  me,  will  heal  up  the 
too  great  wounds  of  China. 

I  will  not  look — to-night  I  will  not  look — 
where  at  my  feet  the  little  coffins  are, 

The  boxes  where  the  beggar  children  lie,  un- 
buried  and  unwatched. 

I  will  not  look  again,  for  once  I  saw  how  one 
was  broken,  torn  by  the  sharp  teeth  of 
dogs.  A  little  tattered  dress  was  there, 
and  some  crunched  bones 

I  need  not  look.    What  can  it  help  to  look? 

Ah,  I  am  past ! 

And  still  the  sunset  glows. 

The  tall  pagoda,  like  a  velvet  flower,  blos 
soms  against  the  sky;  the  Sacred  Moun 
tain  fades,  and  in  the  town  a  child  laughs 
suddenly. 

I  will  hold  fast  to  beauty!  Who  am  I,  that 
I  should  die  for  these? 


I  will  go  down.     I  am  too  sorely  hurt,  here 
on  the  city  wall. 

Wutih 


34  Profiles  from  China 


WOMAN 

Strangely  the  sight  of  you  moves  me. 

I  have  no  standard  by  which  to  appraise  you; 

the  outer  shell  of  you  is  all  I  know. 
Yet  irresistibly  you  draw  me. 

Your  small  plump  body  is  closely  clad  in  blue 
brocaded  satin.  The  fit  is  scrupulous, 
yet  no  woman's  figure  is  revealed.  You 
are  decorously  shapeless. 

Your  satin  trousers  even  are  lined  with  fur. 

Your  hair  is  stiff  and  lustrous  as  polished 
ebony,  bound  at  the  neck  in  an  adaman 
tine  knot,  in  which  dull  pearls  are  en 
crusted. 

Your  face  is  young  and  round  and  inscrutably 
alien. 

Your  complexion  is  exquisite,  matte  gold  over 
lying  blush  pink,  textured  like  ripe  fruit. 

Your  nose  is  flat,  the  perfect  nose  of  China. 

Your  eyes — your  eyes  are  witchery ! 

The  blank  curtain  of  your  upper  lid  droops 
sharply  on  the  iris,  and  when  you  smile 
the  corners  twinkle  upward. 


From  the  Interior  35 

It  is  your  eyes,  I  think,  that  move  me. 

They  are  so  bright,  so  black ! 

They  are  alert  and  full  of  curiosity  as  the 
eyes  of  a  squirrel,  and  like  the  eyes  of  a 
squirrel  they  have  no  depth  behind  them. 

They  are  windows  opening  on  a  world  as 
small  as  your  bound  feet,  a  world  of 
ignorances,  and  vacuities,  and  kitchen- 
gods. 

And  yet  your  eyes  are  witchery.  When  you 
smile  you  are  the  woman-spirit,  ador 
able. 

I  cannot  appraise  you,  yet  strangely  the  sight 

of  you  moves  me. 
I  believe  that  I  shall  dream  of  you. 

r- •- 

Pa-tze-kiao 


36  Profiles  from  China 


OUR  CHINESE  ACQUAINTANCE 

We  met  him  in  the  runway  called  a  street,  be 
tween  the  warrens  known  as  houses. 

He  looked  still  the  same,  but  his  French-cut 
tweeds,  his  continental  hat,  and  small 
round  glasses  were  alien  here. 

About  him  we  felt  a  troubled  uncertainty. 

He  greeted  us  gladly.     "It  is  good"  he  said 

in  his  soft  French,  "to  see  my  foreign 

friends  again. 
You  find  our  city  dirty  I  am  sure.    On  every 

stone  dirt  grows  in  China. 
How  the  people  crowd !  The  street  is  choked. 

Nong  koi  chif    Go  away,  curious  ones! 

The  ladies  cannot  breathe 

No,  my  people  are  not  clean.     They  do  not 

understand,  I  think.    In  Belgium  where 

I  studied — 

......  Yes,  I  was  studying  in  Bruges,  study 
ing  Christianity,  when  the  great  war 

came. 
We,   you   know,   love   peace.      I   could  not 

see 

So  I  came  home. 


From  the  Interior  37 

But  China  is  very  dirty Our  priests 

are  rascals,  and  the  people I 

do  not  know. 
Is  there,  perhaps,  a  true  religion  somewhere? 

The  Greeks  died  too — and  they  were 

clean." 
Behind    his    glasses    his    slant    eyes    were 

troubled. 
"I  do  not  know,"  he  said. 

fPusih 


38  Profiles  from  China 


THE  SPIRIT  WALL 

It  stands  before  my  neighbor's  door,  between 
him  and  the  vegetable  garden  and  the 
open  toilet  pots  and  the  dirty  canal. 

Not  that  he  wishes  to  hide  these  things. 

On  the  contrary,  he  misses  the  view. 

But  China,  you  must  understand,  is  full  of 
evil  spirits,  demons  of  the  earth  and  air, 
foxes  and  shui-mang  devils,  and  only  the 
priest  knows  what  beside. 

A  man  may  at  any  moment  be  bewitched,  so 
that  his  silk-worms  die  and  his  children 
go  blind  and  he  gets  the  devil-sickness. 

So  living  is  difficult. 

But  Heaven  has  providentially  decreed  that 
these  evil  spirits  can  travel  only  in  a 
straight  line.  Around  a  corner  their 
power  evaporates. 

So  my  neighbor  has  built  a  wall  that  runs  be 
fore  his  door.  Windows  of  course  he 
has  none. 

He  cannot  see  his  vegetable  garden,  and  his 
toilet  pots,  and  the  dirty  canal. 

But  he  is  quite  safe ! 

Wusih 


From  the  Interior  39 

THE  MOST-SACRED  MOUNTAIN 

Space,  and  the  twelve  clean  winds  of  heaven, 

And  this  sharp  exultation,  like  a  cry,  after 

the  slow  six  thousand  steps  of  climbing ! 

This  is  Tai  Shan,  the  beautiful,  the  most  holy. 

Below  my  feet  the  foot-hills  nestle,  brown 
with  flecks  of  green;  and  lower  down  the 
flat  brown  plain,  the  floor  of  earth, 
stretches  away  to  blue  infinity. 

Beside  me  in  this  airy  space  the  temple  roofs 
cut  their  slow  curves  against  the  sky, 

And  one  black  bird  circles  above  the  void. 

Space,  and  the  twelve  clean  winds  are  here; 
And   with   them   broods    eternity — a    swift, 

white  peace,  a  presence  manifest. 
The  rhythm  ceases  here.    Time  has  no  place. 

This  is  the  end  that  has  no  end. 

Here  when  Confucius  came,  a  half  a  thousand 
years  before  the  Nazarene,  he  stepped, 
with  me,  thus  into  timelessness. 

The  stone  beside  us  waxes  old,  the  carven 
stone  that  says:  On  this  spot  once 
Confucius  stood  and  felt  the  smallness 
of  the  world  below. 


4O  Profiles  from  China 

The  stone  grows  old. 

Eternity 

Is  not  for  stones. 

But  I  shall  go  down  from  this  airy  space,  this 
swift  white  peace,  this  stinging  exulta 
tion; 

And  time  will  close  about  me,  and  my  soul 
stir  to  the  rhythm  of  the  daily  round. 

Yet,  having  known,  life  will  not  press  so  close, 
and  always  I  shall  feel  time  ravel  thin 
about  me ; 

For  once  I  stood 

In  the  white  windy  presence  of  eternity. 

Tai  Shan 


From  the  Interior  41 


THE  DANDY 

He  swaggers  in  green  silk  and  his  two  coats 
are  lined  with  fur.  Above  his  velvet 
shoes  his  trim,  bound  ankles  twinkle 
pleasantly. 

His  nails  are  of  the  longest. 

Quite  the  glass  of  fashion  is  Mr.  Chu! 

In  one  slim  hand — the  ultimate  punctilio — 
dangles  a  bamboo  cage,  wherein  a  small 
brown  bird  sits  with  a  face  of  perpetual 
surprise. 

Mr.  Chu  smiles  the  benevolent  smile  of  one 
who  satisfies  both  fashion  and  a  tender 
heart. 

Does  not  a  bird  need  an  airing? 

Wusih 


42  Profiles  from  China 


NEW  CHINA:  THE  IRON  WORKS 

The  furnaces,  the  great  steel  furnaces,  tremble 
and  glow ;  gigantic  machinery  clanks,  and 
in  living  iridescent  streams  the  white-hot 
slag  pours  out. 

This  is  to-morrow  set  in  yesterday,  the  west 
imbedded  in  the  east,  a  graft  but  not  a 
growth. 

And  you  who  walk  beside  me,  picking  your 
familiar  way  between  the  dynamos,  the 
cars,  the  piles  of  rails — you  too  are  of 
to-morrow,  grafted  with  an  alien  energy. 

You  wear  the  costume  of  the  west,  you  speak 
my  tongue  as  one  who  knows;  you  talk 
casually  of  Sheffield,  Pittsburgh,  Es 
sen 

You  touch  on  Socialism,  walk-outs,  and  the 
industrial  population  of  the  British  Isles. 

Almost  you  might  be  one  of  us. 

And  then  I  ask : 

"How  much  do  those  poor  coolies  earn  a 

day,  who  take  the  place  of  carts  ?" 
You  shrug  and  smile. 


From  the  Interior  43 

"Eighteen  coppers.  Something  less  than 
eight  cents  in  your  money.  They  are  not 
badly  paid.  They  do  not  die." 

Again  I  ask: 

uAnd  is  it  true  that  you've  a  Yamen,  a  police 
judge,  all  your  own?" 

Another  shrug  and  smile. 

"Yes,  he  attends  to  all  small  cases  of  disor 
der  .  For  larger  crimes  we  pass  the  of 
fender  over  to  the  city  courts." 


"Conditions"  you  explain  as  we  sit  later  with 
a  cup  of  tea,  "conditions  here  are  diffi 
cult." 

Your  figure  has  grown  lax,  your  voice  a  little 
weary.  You  are  fighting,  I  can  see,  up 
held  by  that  strange  graft  of  western 
energy. 

Yet  odds  are  heavy,  and  the  Orient  is  in  your 
blood.  Your  voice  is  weary. 

"There  are  no  skilled  laborers"  you  say, 
"Among  the  owners  no  cooperation. 

It  is  like — like  working  in  a  nightmare, 
here  in  China.  It  drags  at  me,  it 
drags"  


44  Profiles  from  China 

You  bow  me  out  with  great  civility. 

The  furnaces,  the  great  steel  furnaces,  tremble 
and  glow,  gigantic  machinery  clanks  and 
in  living  iridescent  streams  the  white-hot 
slag  pours  out. 

Beyond  the  gate  the  filth  begins  again. 

A  beggar  rots  and  grovels,  clutching  at  my 
skirt  with  leprous  hands.  A  woman  sits 
sorting  hog-bristles ;  she  coughs  and  sobs. 

The  stench  is  sickening. 

To-morrow!  did  they  say? 
Hanyang 


From  the  Interior  45 


MEDITATION 

In  all  the  city  where  I  dwell  two  spaces  only 
are  wide  and  clean. 

One  is  the  compound  about  the  great  church 
of  the  mission  within  the  wall ;  the  other 
is  the  courtyard  of  the  great  factory  be 
yond  the  wall. 

In  these  two,  one  can  breathe. 

And  two  sounds  there  are,  above  the  multi 
tudinous  crying  of  the  city,  two  sounds 
that  recur  as  time  recurs — the  great  bell 
of  the  mission  and  the  whistle  of  the 
factory. 

Every  hour  of  the  day  the  mission  bell  strikes, 
clear,  deep-toned — telling  perhaps  of 
peace. 

And  in  the  morning  and  in  the  evening  the 
factory  whistle  blows,  shrill,  provocative 
— telling  surely  of  toil. 

Now,  when  the  mulberry  trees  are  bare  and 
the  wintry  wind  lifts  the  rags  of  the 
beggars,  the  day  shift  at  the  factory  is 
ten  hours,  and  the  night  shift  is  fourteen. 

They  are  divided  one  from  the  other  by  the 
whistle,  shrill,  provocative. 


46  Profiles  from  China 

The  mission  and  the  factory  are  the  West. 
What  they  are  I  know. 

And  between  them  lies  the  Orient — struggling 
and  suffering,  spawning  and  dying — but 
what  it  is  I  shall  never  know. 

Yet  there  are  two  clean  spaces  in  the  city 
where  I  dwell,  the  compound  of  the 
church  within  the  wall,  and  the  courtyard 
of  the  factory  beyond  the  wall. 

It  is  something  that  in  these  two  one  can 
breathe. 

Wusih 


From  the  Interior  47 


CHINESE  NEW  YEAR 

Mrs.  Sung  has  a  new  kitchen-god. 

The  old  one — he  who  has  presided  over  the 
household  this  twelvemonth — has  re 
turned  to  the  Celestial  Regions  to  make 
his  report. 

Before  she  burned  him  Mrs.  Sung  smeared 
his  mouth  with  sugar;  so  that  doubtless 
the  report  will  be  favorable. 

Now  she  has  a  new  god. 

As  she  paid  ten  coppers  for  him  he  is  hand 
somely  painted  and  should  be  highly 
efficacious. 

So  there  is  rejoicing  in  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Sung. 

Peking 


ECHOES 


I 
CREPUSCULE 


Like  the  patter  of  rain  on  the  crisp  leaves  of 
autumn  are  the  tiny  footfalls  of  the  fox- 
maidens. 


FESTIVAL  OF  THE  DRAGON  BOATS 

On  the  fifth  day  of  the  fifth  month  the  states 
man  Kiih  Yuen  drowned  himself  in  the 
river  Mih-lo. 

Since  then  twenty-three  centuries  have  passed, 
and  the  mountains  wear  away. 

Yet  every  year,  on  the  fifth  day  of  the  fifth 
month,  the  great  Dragon  Boats,  gay  with 
flags  and  gongs,  search  diligently  in  the 
streams  of  the  Empire  for  the  body  of 
Kiih  Yuen. 


J2  Profiles  from  China 


RANG     YI 

When  Kang  Yi  had  been  long  dead  the  Em 
press  decreed  upon  him  posthumous  de 
capitation,  so  that  he  walks  for  ever 
disgraced  among  the  shades. 


POETICS 

While  two  ladies  of  the  Imperial  harem  held 
before  him  a  screen  of  pink  silk,  and  a 
P'  in  Concubine  knelt  with  his  ink-slab, 
Li  Po,  who  was  very  drunk,  wrote  an 
impassioned  poem  to  the  moon. 


Echoes  53 


A  LAMENT  OF  SCARLET  CLOUD 

O  golden  night,  lit  by  the  flame  of  seven  stars, 
the  years  have  drunk  you  too. 


THE  SON  OF  HEAVEN 

Like  this  frail  and  melancholy  rain  is  the  mem 
ory  of  the  Emperor  Kuang-Hsii,  and  of 
his  sufferings  at  the  hand  of  Yehonala. 

Yet  under  heaven  was  there  found  no  one  to 
avenge  him. 

Now  he  has  mounted  the  Dragon  and  has 
visited  the  Nine  Springs.  His  betrayer 
sits  upon  the  Dragon  Throne. 

Yet  among  the  shades  may  he  not  take  com 
fort  from  the  presence  of  his  Pearl 
Concubine  ? 


54  Profiles  from  China 


THE  DREAM 

When  he  had  tasted  in  a  dream  of  the  Ten 
Courts  of  Purgatory,  Doctor  Tseng  was 
humbled  in  spirit,  and  passed  his  life  in 
piety  among  the  foot-hills. 


YIN  AND  YANG 

At  the  Hour  of  the  Horse  avoid  raising  a 
roof-tree,  for  by  the  trampling  of  his 
hoofs  it  may  be  beaten  down; 

And  at  the  Hour  of  the  cunning  Rat  go  not 
near  a  soothsayer,  for  by  his  cunning  he 
may  mislead  the  oracle,  and  the  hopes 
of  the  enquirer  come  to  naught. 


CHINA 

OF 

THE 

TOURISTS 


REFLECTIONS  IN  A  RICKSHA 


This  ricksha  is  more  comfortable  than  some. 
The  springs  are  not  broken,  and  the  seat  is 

covered  with  a  white  cloth. 
Also  the  runner  is  young  and  sturdy,  and  his 

legs  flash  pleasantly. 
I  am  not  ill  at  ease. 

The  runner  interests  me. 

Between  the  shafts  he  trots  easily  and  fa 
miliarly,  lifting  his  knees  prettily  and 
holding  his  shoulders  steady. 

His  hips  are  lean  and  narrow  as  a  filly's;  his 
calves  might  have  posed  for  Praxiteles. 

He  is  a  modern,  I  perceive,  for  he  wears  no 
queue. 

Above  a  rounded  neck  rises  a  shock  of  hair  the 
shade  of  dusty  coal.  Each  hair  is  stiff 
and  erect  as  a  brush  bristle.  There  are 
lice  in  them  no  doubt — but  then  perhaps 
we  of  the  West  are  too  squeamish  in 
details  of  this  minor  sort. 

What  interests  me  chiefly  is  the  back  of  his 
ears.  Not  that  they  are  extraordinary 

57 


\j 


58  Profiles  from  China 

as  ears;  it  is  their  very  normality  that 
touches  me.  I  find  them  smaller  than 
those  of  a  horse,  but  undoubtedly  near 
of  kin. 

There  is  no  denying  the  truth  of  evolution; 

Yet  as  a  beast  of  burden  man  is  distinctly 
inferior. 


It  is  odd. 

At  home  I  am  a  democrat.  A  republic,  a  true 
republic,  seems  not  improbable,  a  fight 
ing  dream. 

Yet  beholding  the  back  of  the  ears  of  a  trot 
ting  man  I  perceive  it  to  be  impossible — 
the  millennium,  another  million  years 
away. 

I  grow  insufferably  superior  and  Anglo- 
Saxon. 

I  am  sorry,  but  what  would  you  ? 

One  is  what  one  is. 

Hankow 


China  of  the   Tourists  59 


THE  CAMELS 

Whence  do  you  come,  and  whither  make 
return,  you  silent  padding  beasts? 

Over  the  mountain  passes;  through  the 
Great  Wall;  to  Kalgan — and  beyond, 
whither? 

Here   in  the  city  you   are   alien,   even  as  I 

am  alien. 
Your    sidling   jaw,    your    pendulous    neck — 

incredible — and  that  slow  smile   about 

your  eyes  and  lip,  these  are  not  of  this 

land. 
About  you  some  far  sense  of  mystery,  some 

tawny  charm,  hangs  ever. 
Silently,  with  the  dignity  of  the  desert,  your 

caravans    move    among    the    hurrying 

hordes,  remote  and  slowly  smiling. 

But  whence  are  you,  and  whither  do  you  make 

return? 
Over    the    mountain    passes;    through    the 

Great  Wall;  to  Kalgan — and  beyond, 

whither? 

Peking 


60  Profiles  from  China 

THE  CONNOISSEUR :  AN  AMERICAN 

He  is  not  an  old  man,  but  he  is  lonely. 

He  who  was  born  in  the  clash  of  a  western 
city  dwells  here,  in  this  silent  courtyard, 
alone. 

Seven  servants  he  has,  seven  men-servants. 
They  move  about  quietly  and  their 
slippered  feet  make  no  sound.  Behind 
their  almond  eyes  move  green,  sidelong 
shadows,  and  their  limber  hands  are 
never  still. 

In  his  house  the  riches  of  the  Orient  are  gath 
ered. 

Ivory  he  has,  carved  in  a  thousand  quaint, 
enticing  shapes — pleasant  to  the  hand, 
smooth  with  the  caressing  of  many 
fingers. 

And  jade  is  there,  dark  green  and  milky 
white,  with  amber  from  Korea  and 
strange  gems — beryl,  chrysoprase,  jas 
per,  sardonyx 

His  lacquered  shelves  hold  priceless  pottery 
— peachblow  and  cinnabar  and  silver 
grey — pottery  glazed  like  the  new 
moon,  fired  how  long  ago  for  a  moon- 
pale  princess  of  the  East,  whose  very 
name  is  dust ! 


China  of  the   Tourists  61 

In  his  vaults  are  incredible  textures  and  colors 
that  vibrate  like  struck  jade. 

Stiff  with  gold  brocade  they  are,  or  soft  as 
the  coat  of  a  fawn — these  sacred  robes 
of  a  long  dead  priest,  silks  of  a  gold- 
skinned  courtesan,  embroideries  of  a 
lost  throne. 

When  he  unfolds  them  the  shimmering  heaps 
are  like  living  opals,  burning  and  moving 
darkly  with  the  warm  breath  of  beauty. 

And  other  priceless  things  the  collector  has, 
so  that  in  many  days  he  could  not  look 
upon  them  all. 

Every  morning  his  seven  men-servants  dress 
him,  and  every  evening  they  undress 
him.  Behind  their  almond  eyes  move 
green  sidelong  shadows. 

In  this  silent  courtyard  the  collector  lives. 

He  is  not  an  old  man  but  he  is  lonely. 

Peking 


62  Profiles  from  China 


SUNDAY  IN  THE  BRITISH  EMPIRE: 
HONG  KONG 

In  the  aisle  of  the  cathedral  it  lies,  an  army 
rifle  of  the  latest  type. 

It  is  laid  on  the  black  and  white  mosaic,  be 
tween  the  carved  oaken  pews  and  the 
strip  of  brown  carpet  in  the  aisle. 

A  crimson  light  from  the  stained-glass  win 
dow  yonder  glints  on  the  blue  steel  of  its 
barrel,  and  the  brown  khaki  of  its 
shoulder-strap  blends  with  the  brown  of 
the  carpet. 

The  stiff  backs  of  its  owner  and  a  hundred 
like  him  are  very  still. 

The  vested  choir  chants  prettily. 

Then  the  bishop  speaks : 

"O  God,  who  art  the  author  of  peace 
and  lover  of  concord,  defend  us  thy 
humble  servants  in  all  assaults  of  our 


enemies" 


"Amen!"  say  the  owners  of  the  khaki  backs. 

The  light  has  shifted  a  little.  On  the  blue 
steel  barrel  of  the  rifle  the  glint  is  tur 
quoise  now. 


China  of  the   Tourists  63 

That  will  be  from  the  robe  of  the  shepherd 
in  the  window  yonder,  He  of  the  quiet 
eyes 

Hong  Kong 


64  Profiles  from  China 


ON  THE  CANTON  RIVER  BOAT 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  paces  the  sentry. 

He  is  dressed  in  a  uniform  of  khaki  and  his 
socks  are  green.  Over  his  shoulder  is 
slung  a  rifle,  and  from  his  belt  hang  a 
pistol  and  cartridge  pouch. 

He  is,  I  think,  Malay  and  Chinese  mixed. 

Behind  him  the  rocky  islands,  hazed  in  blue, 
the  yellow  sun-drenched  water,  the 
tropic  shore,  pass  as  a  background  in  a 
dream. 

He  only  is  sweltering  reality. 

Yet  he  is  here  to  guard  against  a  nightmare, 
an  anachronism,  something  that  I  can 
not  grasp. 

He  is  guarding  me  from  pirates. 

j 

Piracy!  The  very  name  Is  fantastic  in  my 
ears,  colored  like  a  toucan  in  the  zoo. 

And  yet  the  ordinance  is  clear :  "Four  armed 
guards,  strong  metal  grills  behind  the 
bridge,  the  engine-room  enclosed — in 
case  of  piracy." 


China  of  the   Tourists  65 

The  socks  of  the  sentry  are  green. 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down  he  paces,  between 

the  bridge  and  the  first  of  the  life-boats. 
In  my  deck  chair  I  grow  restless. 
Am   I   then   so   far  removed   from  life,   so 

wrapped  in  cotton  wool,  so  deep-sunk  in 

the  soft  lap  of  civilization,  that  I  cannot 

feel  the  cold  splash  of  truth? 
It   is    a    disquieting    thought — for   certainly 

piracy  seems  as  fantastic  as  ever. 

The  socks  of  the  sentry  annoy  me.    They  are 

too  green  for  so  hot  a  day. 
And  his  shoes  squeak. 
I  should  feel  much  cooler  if  he  wouldn't  pace 

so. 
Piracy! 

Somewhere  on  the  River 


66  Profiles  from  China 


THE  ALTAR  OF  HEAVEN 

Beneath  the  leaning,  rain-washed  sky  this 
great  white  circle — beautiful ! 

In  three  white  terraces  the  circle  lies,  piled 
one  on  one  toward  Heaven.  And  on 
each  terrace  the  white  balustrade  climbs 
in  aspiring  marble,  etched  in  cloud. 

And  Heaven  is  very  near. 

For  this  is  worship  native  as  the  air,  wide  as 
the  wind,  and  poignant  as  the  rain, 

Pure  aspiration,  the  eternal  dream. 

Beneath  the  leaning  sky  this  great  white 
circle ! 

Peking 


China  of  the   Tourists  67 


THE  CHAIR  RIDE 

The  coolies  lift  and  strain; 

My  chair  creaks  rhythmically. 

It  is  not  yet  morning  and  the  live  darkness 

pushes  about  us,  a  greedy  darkness  that 

has  swallowed  even  the  stars. 
In  all  the  world  there  is  left  only  my  chair, 

with  the  tiny  horn  lantern  before  it. 
There  are  also,  it  is  true,  the  undersides  of 

trees  in  the  lantern-light  and  the  stony 

path  that  flows  past  ceaselessly. 
But  these  things  flit  and  change. 
Only  I  and  the  chair  and  the  darkness  are 

permanent.     We  have  been  moving  so 

since  time  was  in  the  womb. 

The  seat  of  my  chair  is  of  wicker. 

It  is  not  unlike  an  invalid  chair,  and  I,  in  it, 

am  swaddled  like  an  invalid,  wrapped 

in  layer  on  layer  of  coddling  wool. 
But  there  are  no  wheels  to  my  chair.     I  ride 

on  the  steady  feet  of  four  queued  coolies. 
The  tramp  of  their  lifted  shoes  is  the  rhythm 

of  being,  throbbing  in  me  as  my  own 

heart  throbs. 


68  Profiles  from  China 

Save  for  their  feet  the  bearers  are  silent. 
They  move  softly  through  the  live  dark 
ness.  But  now  and  again  I  am  shifted 
skilfully  from  one  shoulder  to  the  other. 

The  breath  of  the  coolies  is  short. 

They  strain,  and  in  spite  of  the  cold  I  know 

they  are  sweating. 
It  is  wicked  of  course ! 
My  five  dollars  ought  not  to  buy  life. 
But  it  is  all  they  understand; 
And  even  I  am  not  precisely  comfortable. 

The  darkness  is  thinning  a  little. 

On  either  side  loom  featureless  black  hills, 

their  summits  sharp  and  ragged. 
The  Great  Wall  is  somewhere  hereabouts. 

My  chair  creaks  rhythmically. 
In  another  year  it  will  be  day. 

Ching-lung-chiao 


China  of  the   Tourists  69 


THE  SIKH  POLICEMAN :  A  BRITISH 
SUBJECT 

Of  what,  I  wonder,  are  you  thinking? 

It  is  something  beyond  my  world  I  know, 

something  that  I  cannot  guess. 
Yet  I  wonder. 

Of  nothing  Chinese  can  you  be  thinking,  for 
you  hate  them  with  an  automatic  hatred 
— the  hatred  of  the  well-fed  for  the 
starved,  of  the  warlike  for  the  weak. 

When  they  cross  you,  you  kick  them,  viciously, 
with  the  drawing  back  of  your  silken 
beard,  your  black,  black  beard,  from 
your  white  teeth. 

With  a  snarl  you  kick  them,  sputtering  curses 
in  short  gutturals. 

You  do  not  even  speak  their  tongue,  so  it 
cannot  be  of  them  you  are  thinking. 

Yet  neither  do  you  speak  the  tongue  of  the 

master  whom  you  serve. 
No  more  do  you  know  of  us  the  "Masters" 

than  you  know  of  them  the  "dogs." 
We  are  above  you,  they  below. 


Profiles  from  China 


And  between  us  you  stand,  guarding  the 
street,  erect  and  splendid,  lithe  and  male. 
Your  scarlet  turban  frames  your  neat 
black  head, 

And  you  are  thinking. 

Or  are  you  ? 

Perhaps  we  only  are  stung  with  thought. 

I  wonder. 

Shanghai 


China  of  the   Tourists  71 

THE  LADY  OF  EASY  VIRTUE:     AN 
AMERICAN 

Lotus, 

So  they  called  your  name. 

Yet  the   green   swelling   pod,   the   fruit-like 

seeds  and  heavy  flower,  are  nothing  like 

to  you. 
Rather,  like  a  pitcher  plant  you  are,  for  hope 

and  all  young  wings  are  drowned  in  you. 

Your  slim  body,  here  in  the  cafe,  moves 
brightly  in  and  out.  Green  satin,  and  a 
dance,  white  wine  and  gleaming  laugh 
ter,  with  two  nodding  earrings — these 
are  Lotus. 

And  in  the  painted  eyes  cold  steel,  and  on  the 
lips  a  vulgar  jest; 

Hands  that  fly  ever  to  the  coat  lapels,  famil 
iar  to  the  wrists  and  to  the  hair  of  men. 
These  too  are  Lotus. 

And  what  more — God  knows ! 

You  too  perhaps  were  stranded  here,  like 
these  poor  homesick  boys,  in  this  great 
catch-all  where  the  white  race  ends,  this 
grim  Shanghai  that  like  a  sieve  hangs 
over  filth  and  loneliness. 


Profiles  from  China 


You  were  caught  here  like  these,  and  who 
could  live,  young  and  so  slender  —  in 
Shanghai  ? 

Green    satin,    and   a   gleaming   throat,    and 

painted  eyes  of  steel, 
Hunter  or  hunted, 
Peace  be  with  you, 
Lotus! 

Shanghai 


China  of  the   Tourists  73 


IN  THE  MIXED  COURT:  SHANGHAI 

Two  men  sit  in  judgment  on  their  fellows. 

Side  by  side  they  sit,  raised  on  the  pedestal  of 
the  law,  at  grips  with  squalor  and  ig 
norance. 

They  are  civilization — and  they  are  very 
grave. 

One  of  them  is  of  my  own  people,  a  small 
man,  definite,  hard-featured,  an  accurate 
weapon  of  small  calibre. 

Of  the  other  I  cannot  judge. 

He  is  heavily  built,  and  when  he  is  still  the 
dignity  of  the  Orient  is  about  him  like 
his  robe.  His  head  is  large  and  beauti 
fully  domed,  his  hands  tapering  and 
aristocratic. 

When  he  speaks  it  is  of  subtleties. 

But  when  he  speaks  his  dignity  drops  from 
him.  His  eyes  shift  quickly  from  one 
end  of  their  little  slit  to  the  other,  his 
mouth,  his  full  brown  mouth,  moves 
over-fast,  his  hands  flicker  back  and 
forth. 


74  Profiles  from  China 

The  courtroom  is  crowded  with  ominous  yel 
low  poverty. 

The  cases  are  of  many  sorts. 

A  woman,  she  of  the  little  tortured  feet  and 
sullen  face,  has  kidnapped  a  small  boy  to 
sell.  A  man  was  caught  smuggling 
opium.  A  tea-merchant,  in  dark  green 
silk,  complains  that  he  was  decoyed  and 
held  prisoner  in  a  lodging-house  for  ran 
som.  A  gambling  den  has  been  raided 
and  the  ivory  dominoes  are  shown  in 
court. 

The  prisoners  are  stoically  sullen.  The  odor 
of  them  fills  the  room. 

Above  them  sit  the  two  men,  raised  on  the 
pedestal  of  the  law,  judging  their  fel 
lows. 

I  turn  to  the  man  beside  me,  waiting  his  case. 

"Tell  me"  I  ask  uof  these  men,  which  is  the 
better  judge?" 

He  answers  carefully. 

"The  Chinaman  is  cleverer  by  half.  He  sees 
where  the  other  is  blind.  But  Chinese 
magistrates  are  bought,  and  this  one  sells 
himself  too  cheap." 

"And  the  other?"  I  ask  again. 


China  of  the   Tourists  75 

UA  good  man,  and  quite  honest.    You  see  he 
doesn't  care." 

The  judges  put  their  heads  together.    They 
are  civilization  and  they  are  very  grave. 
What,  I  wonder,  is  civilization? 

Shanghai 


M 

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